


Ghosts of Autumn

by Saeto15



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Ashen Romance | Auspistice, Black Romance, F/M, M/M, Multi, Orphaner Dualscar/Karkat Vantas - Freeform, Orphaner Dualscar/The Dolorosa, Quadrant Confusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:31:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saeto15/pseuds/Saeto15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He calls you his diamond, and you do not object.  You’ve pretended for so long; hundreds of sweeps. Perhaps you have forgotten what it really feels like to pity someone. Perhaps underneath it all you do pity him. It is difficult to say.</p><p>Dualscar, quadranted with a lowblood? The sweeps have been unkind, they say.</p><p>Yes, you want to shout in reply. The sweeps have been unkind to us all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ghosts of Autumn

You are the disgraced Dolorosa, and your life is a tragedy. Your son is executed before you, his friends dispersed, and you- you are sold into slavery. Death would be too kind, they say. 

But you are a rainbow drinker, and you take to walking the length of your new master's ship during the day, when every other troll is safe belowdecks. The ship sways with the waves, wood creaking and sails snapping in the wind. All is silent save for the day watch, sounding the bells from below. You stand at the rails and gaze out, soaking in the warmth of the day but taking no comfort in it.

You imagine a tiny hand in yours, wide silver eyes peering up at you and a mouth of dull fangs set in a serious expression. He'd been taller than you, in the end, hands larger than your own, but it's easier to remember him this way: a child, hiding beneath your cloak whenever you entered a new village or encountered strangers. 

Something to protect, to cherish, to love.

There is no love left here. The sweeps loom before you, unpleasant and empty, and you will never know happiness again.

**

The sweeps pass. You find yourself thinking of your son less often. Your nights are filled with meaningless work, though you have it easier than most. Your master is a vain creature, and he puts you to work patching his wardrobe, tidying his cabin while he’s working, serving his meals while he reads his histories as the night hours wane. He guards you jealously after his kismesis used you to bait him, never letting you far from his side.

He discovers your secret. Strangely, it doesn’t disturb him. He gives you trolls to feed on as you require. He enjoys watching you drain them, skin turning ashen as you sink your fangs in, taking delicate mouthfuls, though even your best efforts generally turn out messy. Most trolls would be disturbed by such a display, but not him.

Dualscar only observes, face passive but eyes bright, missing no small detail. He dabs at your bloodied mouth with his handkerchief afterward, calloused palm caressing your cheek.

His fleet is decimated. Another failed rebellion rises and falls, your son’s name on the lips of the perpetrators. 

Your heart hurts, and your master finds comfort in you.

You are not pale for him, could never be pale for such a man, but it eases the pain for you both. You need something to focus on, to drive away the lingering guilt, and your master yearns for the attention.

His kismesis is dead. He lets you drink of him for the first time that night, careless. Perhaps he wishes for death at your hands.

You do not oblige him.

**

Sweeps upon sweeps, and Dualscar is no longer required. A new heiress is born. He takes the news with grace; more, you think, than he would have if not for your calming presence. He has a new ship outfitted for the occasion: smaller than his now-ruined flagship. He brings you along and no others.

He calls you his diamond, and you do not object. You’ve pretended for so long; hundreds of sweeps. Perhaps you have forgotten what it really feels like to pity someone. Perhaps underneath it all you do pity him. It is difficult to say. You have been numb for centuries.

You grow closer. He lets you have your small pleasures: a sewing machine, your books and your romance films. He takes you to parties and introduces you as his moirail, heedless of the scandal he leaves in his wake. You think he finds a mean spirited enjoyment in the way you turn heads, the way the nobility whispers. You grow used to highbloods watching you with disdain, fins laid back along necks and tittering behind your back.

Dualscar, quadranted with a lowblood? The sweeps have been unkind, they say.

Yes, you want to shout in reply. The sweeps have been unkind to us all.

Dualscar tires of this scene quickly. His flushed courting only results in turned backs and gossip. 

“Let them talk,” he says, lightly, but you can see his anger, a seething dark mass just below the placid surf. You don’t know what he had been hoping to accomplish. Orphaner Dualscar has always been among the noblest of bloods, never too far from reminding everyone of that fact. Is it his infatuation with you that brings his social downfall?

You don’t know. What’s more, you don’t want to know what he’ll do to you because of it.

**

He comes to you early one night and tilts your face up, lips brushing your own. He watches you closely, eyelids half mast, gauging your reaction. You sigh, softly, and he draws back, almost sheepishly, disappointment evident in his expression. You would be lying if you said you had not expected this. Dualscar has always used his slaves in such a way. You are no different.

And yet. He releases you and stalks away, cape swishing sullenly around his ankles. He doesn’t speak to you that night. You don’t know what stopped him, but you are relieved.

He comes to you again, and again. You allow this, passively, and make no protest. He will take want he wants, of that you have no doubt. You know him well, after all these sweeps. You’ve seen his rages, his tantrums; you’ve seen him cut down slaves from anger they did not provoke. You allow this, because what other choice do you have?

You do not have any illusions. Dualscar is neither pale or flushed for you, nor you for him; his affections lay only in an empress he has never met. He is frustrated, resentful, sure of his own worth, yet cast aside by the empire he has served for his entire life. The situation would be pitiable, if it were any other troll. It would be pitiable if you had any capacity for pity left.

He brings you to his couch and takes off your blouse in the dark of the cabin, softly mouthing your neck in pale imitation of your feeding. You do not reciprocate. You entertain the thought, briefly; you have been lonely as well, after all. But you cannot bring yourself to this. You have given up everything to this man, one way or another. If he wants this, it will not be given willingly.

Once again, he pauses, noting your discomfort. He pulls away, his mouth set in a thin line as he sees your face. 

You lock eyes, and you see a terrible conflict there. In the end, though, he leaves you, stomping away, the door ajar as he makes his strategic retreat. And again, you are left wondering.

The next night he puts in to port and disembarks without a word. You stand at the railing and watch him go. You are both lonely. It has gone unsaid, but there is no hiding it. You can read him like one of your novels, after so many sweeps, and you have no secrets from him. You are both lonely, and together you are horrible company.

**

He comes back just before sunrise. It is raining, and his cloak’s hood is up, hiding his face. There is another figure walking beside him, head down and arms shackled. The other troll is small, huddled into itself defensively, though whether it be against fear or the elements, you don’t know.

Dualscar shoots you a haughty glare as you greet him, only looking away to pull the other troll aboard. There is a challenge there, in his gaze, and you steel yourself.

“Vwelcome our new guest,” he says, and pushes the small troll forward. It’s a male, with messy hair and tiny nub horns, eyes still an adolescent gray. The troll watches you defiantly, perhaps quickly realizing that you are just another slave and have no power over him.

There is no recognition at first. You have all but forgotten the troll you once loved enough to play lusus to, and though the overall resemblance is uncanny, there is no overwhelming urge to reach forward, to comfort. This troll is glowering and angry- and, perhaps, dangerous. Dualscar breaks the uneasy silence and pushes the troll foward again with one large hand to the back of his neck, and they breeze past you to go below. You watch them retreat, and it feels like there is a vice on your bloodpusher to see that familiar form leaving you behind.

You avoid them for as long as you can; which is to say, not long. On a ship so small it is impossible to be truly alone, and you must listen as Dualscar breaks in his new slave. He approaches it with the sort of enthusiasm you haven’t seen from him in years. Perhaps he is imagining your face, hearing your cries. 

You don’t know.

What surprises you is how viciously the little troll fights back. You hear screaming, from rage and pain, incoherent bursts of noise as well as long, spat-out monologues informing Dualscar that he is, among other things, a “grubfucking globe-fondler”. You observe at a distance as Dualscar brings him on deck, striking him in punishment with the lash. The blood that seeps from the gashes on his exposed back is red- bright red.

And still there is no urge to run to him, to coddle. You are terrified and angry and confused, and you want to hurt them both.

**

Dualscar has owned many slaves, and this young troll is the least of them in many ways. 

You are preparing the evening meal in the food preperation block when you are alone with him for the first time. 

His hands are still shackled, so you cannot tell him to assist you in any meaningful way. You doubt he would have listened, at any rate. He sits and watches you work, hunched and sullen, scowling at you when he thinks you’re not looking. He is bruised and battered, but not quite beaten. You would admire his tenacity, if you were not certain it will only get him killed.

There is such a resemblance. You have been trying to ignore it, as you have for these past hundred sweeps. You remember everything. You have done your best not to dwell on those memories, but occasionally you must. You sit in the silence of the day, alone, and let them flow, to ease the pressure on your pusher and your mind. You have never told Dualscar, but somehow he knows. He would not have chosen this new slave, if not for you.

It is a punishment. Or, maybe, a gift- in his own twisted way. He must know how that face, those horns, the shape of that jaw affect you. He must know, and he must be taking some enjoyment from it. Maybe it is because you denied him of what he felt was rightfully his.

Maybe he has decided to try for a different quadrant altogether.

He watches you in silence as you prepare fish and peel tubers, eyes narrowing at you when you happen to glance his way. He is suspicious of you, and for good reason. He has had plenty of time to get to know his new master. 

You, however, are still an enigma. Whether you mean him harm, as well, is yet to be seen.

"Are you his moirail?” the younger troll asks, voice hoarse. You keep working, ignoring him, but he is unfazed. 

“Matesprit?” He coughs, his throat protesting. “Fucking lusus? What the actual fuck are you good for?”

You can’t control what you do next, and you take even him by surprise. You whirl around, knife in hand, and grab him by the throat, pulling him from his seat. His eyes go wide in shock, chained hands coming up to defend himself, but his claws, his teeth, his horns are blunt and useless.

“ _We_ ,” you say, placing emphasis on the word, “are slaves. If you wish to live, you would do well to remember that.”

He’s growling at you, and you have your teeth bared, showing off your long, rainbow-drinker fangs. Your own claws are digging into the tender flesh of his neck, and you suddenly find yourself transfixed. It has been so long since you’ve tasted this particular shade.

“Vwell,” comes the deep, accented voice from behind you. You feel his hands come to rest on your shoulders, his breath on your cheek as he leans over you. The younger troll hisses again, strained, but he’s frozen in terror. 

You can smell it. You’ve only had Dualscar’s blood for so long, and it’s impossible to resist the temptation of something new.

You pull him closer, pushing his face aside and running your fangs along his throat, feeling for the pulse. You bite down, harder than strictly necessary, and he chokes, trying to jerk away from your teeth. Dualscar stops him with a hand around his arm, pulling him back in, but you barely register; your mouth is flooding with his bright, unnatural blood, and it is the best thing you’ve ever tasted. You want to drain him, leave him a shivering mess on the floor as the life slips away. You want to put him out of his misery. Most of all, though, you just want to put an end to _him_ , so you don’t have to look at that face anymore, the not-features of the troll you’d called ‘son’.

Dualscar stops you after you’ve only taken a few mouthfuls, and you hiss in desperation as you’re dragged away. 

“Now, now,” he says softly, and you collapse into him, your back to his chest, sobbing. “You’re not going to kill him,” he whispers. “Do you have any idea how much he cost?”

He kisses you, gently, on the cheek, far too presumptuous, far too pale. You want to sink your fangs into him as an encore, but you can’t. All you can do is slump back against him, your claws releasing your sputtering victim, and sob, and laugh, and regret.

**

You don't know what to call this mess. None of you can presume to a quadrant. None of you have the luxury of choice: you, the rainbow-drinker slave, him the mutant outcast, and your master the disgraced seadweller. All you have is what you can rip from each other. You are a whirlpool of hatred, resentment, and misguided pity. 

Which is why you're extremely surprised when Dualscar buys you a new dress. In all of your sweeps together he has never bought you clothing, and you are immediately suspicious. He asks you to put it on and you oblige him, standing before your full-length mirror as he watches from the doorway. It is a deep jade to match your eyes, but instead of your sign, his is stitched along the collar. You expected as much, but it still annoys you.

He leads you up onto the deck and you are greeted by the absurd sight of Karkat slouched against the railing, wearing a charcoal suit. He is hunched over and miserable, arms crossed over his chest as if attempting to hide something. Dualscar releases your elbow and steps up to him, prying his arms away and revealing a half-knotted crimson tie around his neck.

"I told you I don't know how to tie this fucking thing," Karkat mutters, and Dualscar quickly fixes it. Then, smiling, he takes each of you by an arm and leads you down to the pier. Trolls stare in your wake, but only Karkat seems to mind; he glares right back at them, and you can only roll your eyes.

You are attending a party, and Dualscar seems dead-set on causing a scene. He introduces you as his ashenmates. 

You want to punch him, but Karkat beats you to it.

The sweeps have definitely been unkind, they say, staring and whispering and visibly distressed. 

"Yes," you reply, lifting a glass of wine from a passing tray. "They have been unkind to us all."

You are the Dolorosa. Your life has been one long tragedy, but you suppose it could have been worse.


	2. As Long As We Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your name is Karkat Vantas, and lately your life has gone to shit in a frankly alarming number of ways.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and your life has turned to shit in a surprisingly short amount of time. 

You've known since you were a grub that you were meant for something big. You're a hatched leader, after all. You'd had it all planned out from your sixth wiggling day: train every day with your sickles, become the badass you always knew you were deep down inside, and when they came to conscript you they'd be so fucking impressed that nobody would give a shit about your blood.

It had been a good plan. You still think so. You just underestimated exactly how shitty your blood really is.

So now you're stuck on a ship with two of the craziest trolls you've ever known, one of whom enjoys snacking on your blood when she's not glaring at you for having the fucking globes to exist in the first place. The other one... well, fuck.

The other one is, at this very moment, snarling at you as his huge hand clamps around your throat, squeezing hard enough to choke the breath from you. You're snarling right back at him, but you put on a far less impressive display. You don't have any fins to flare, for one thing, and you don't have the kind of height and build that come with being a centuries-old seadweller. 

Also, his horns are way longer than yours, and that's really fucking unfair.

The seadweller pushes you against the railing that circles the ship, pressing you back until you're bent over painfully, your shoulders dangling over open, choppy waves. The sea is black tonight; not even the dual full moons can penetrate very far down, and you hate to think of what horrors might be lurking.

You hate to think of it, but you know there's probably a good chance that you'll be forced to face them very soon.

Dualscar leers down at you, and you know he's really not as angry as he's pretending to be. But you're not about to call him out on it, mostly because you really can't right now, not with his fucking nubs around your throatstem. He leans in, closing the distance between you alarmingly fast, and the kiss he presses to your lips is forceful and not much else. You open your mouth to his tongue because that means he'll let you breath, if only for a second. Then you bite down as hard as you can, and that's it, that's all he was waiting for.

He pitches you overboard, and you're seriously starting to think this is going to become A Thing with him.

You hit the water face-first and a wave pushes you under almost immediately. You kick, hard, and manage to break the surface long enough to get a lungful of air, but that's the extent of your swimming abilities. You're getting better, with all the practice you've had lately, but you're still not strong enough to fight the waves for long. 

You find yourself sinking into the darkness, eyes fixed on the bleary, shifting green and pink of the moons overhead. This is usually when he jumps in after you. A deep, terrible fear seizes you, clutching at your belly, at your heart, and you begin to fight again, kicking your legs and arms as hard as you can. He's not coming for you this time. He's going to let you drown this time, and it's all your fucking fault for fighting him, for not taking him seriously-

You're close to the surface, so fucking close but you can feel yourself tiring, numb from the cold and lack of air. You make one last desperate lunge, but it's still too far. You can't help it anymore, you open your mouth and scream, your lungs burning, your remaining breath bubbling from your mouth. 

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you're going to drown in the open ocean because you're just that fucking worthless. You're so fucking worthless a fucking _seadweller_ can't be bothered to jump in and grab you. 

You should have been born with gills, too. Your blood's bad enough, what's a few extra extraneous organs to go along with it?

You're sinking deeper. Your brain is shutting down, but not before getting in that final encore of self-hatred. Your arms hang limply before you as you fall into the abyss, shading a deeper gray with the depth. Your face is angled down, and you see lights flashing far below. There are things down there, and they're waiting patiently for you to come and visit. 

Something hits the water above you, but you barely register, muffled and far-off as it is. You don't care anymore. 

A clammy hand grabs hold of your wrist, and you realize that yes, actually, you really _do_ fucking care. You find one last burst of energy, enough to shake your arm wildly in an effort to break from whatever horrorterror has you, and you find yourself staring into smug violet eyes. You slump, defeated, and Dualscar presses his mouth to yours, flooding your lungs with recycled air. It's the sweetest thing you've ever tasted. It always is.

He pulls you back to the surface and you cling to him like a barnacle, because somewhere between the surface and the abyss you've lost whatever shreds of dignity you had left. You break through the waves and you gasp in the cool night air. Dualscar is, for once, the warmest thing around, and you grip him tightly, afraid to let go.

"Fuck," you wheeze, burying your face in his neck. "I fuck- fucking hate you."

"I know," the smarmy asshole replies, his voice rumbling and deep in his throat.

He takes you back to the ship and peels your wet clothes off in his cabin. He's a smug bastard for the rest of the night, but this part, at least, you can handle.

**

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you're not really sure why, but you think this rainbow drinker might have it out for you.

And by 'have it out for you', you mean she really wants to drink your blood. 

And by 'drink your blood', you mean she wants to drain you dry and leave you a withered husk of a troll on the respite block floor. 

The shitty part is, you'd probably deserve it.

The Dolorosa has a way of looking at you and leaving you feeling like a bag of shit. You usually feel pretty shitty, don't get you wrong, that's basically every day for Karkat Vantas, but- well. She's old, and you have a feeling she's Seen Some Shit and Kicked Some Ass to go along with it, so when she looks at you like you're a sniveling pre-molt grub, it does things to you.

You want to punch her when she looks at you like that, but you don't dare. You'd punch Dualscar at the drop of a fucking hat, because he's just so punchable, but the Dolorosa would probably just tear your throat out and be done with it. Even Dualscar doesn't fuck with her, and Dualscar has made a career of fucking with things that really shouldn't be fucked with.

But this is special circumstances, and you really can't help yourself. You are watching a romcom in the respite block when she enters, takes one look at you, and turns right around to leave. And that's it, you've finally had enough. You lunge to your feet and snag her sleeve with your claws, clicking in anger despite yourself.

"What the fuck is your problem with me?" you demand. You were going to say more, but she lashes out before you can, her fist connecting against your temple and knocking you sideways. It's like getting hit with a bag of bricks. You collapse onto the floor, crushing a filmgrub as you catch yourself on your hands and knees. You have goo all over you, and you have just enough time to be disgusted before her heel comes down on your neck, driving you flat.

"My problem?" she asks, enunciating clearly, her voice smooth and ancient and silky. "I do not have a problem with you, Karkat."

You open your mouth to respond, but she grinds her heel against your vertebrae, and you suddenly lose interest in arguing. 

"However, I do have a problem with your horrible taste in films." She glances at the movie you were watching, Troll John Cusack and Troll Kate Beckinsale flashing on screen. "I should force Cronus to watch them so he will stop purchasing them for you."

Okay, you have to argue with that. "Come on, this is a fucking classic! How can you hate 'Troll Serendipity?'"

"Quite easily," she says, but she releases you, allowing you to crawl back up to the couch. 

You're not fooled. She hates looking at you, hates the sound of your voice and the way you chew your knuckles when you're trying desperately not to vomit your rage on everyone in the vicinity. She hates the way you walk, the way you chew your grubloaf, the way you needle Dualscar on a daily basis. Her hatred is platonic and real, and you have no idea what you did to provoke it. If you didn't hate yourself so much already you'd probably be worried. As it is, you're just surprised at how quickly she noticed how much of a festering shitheap you really are.

"Fuck," you mutter, wrapping your arms around yourself like the spongefucked wiggler you are. You want to apologize, but she's already long gone.

**

"You remind her of someone," Dualscar informs you, later that night. 

You can't really respond, because it's difficult to speak coherently when his bulge is trying desperately to cram itself down your throat. Of course he'd pick the worst time to discuss it. He's a vile shitsucking bag of diseased bulges. You've told him this more than once, you really would have thought he'd remember by now.

Later, when you're not being strangled by frisky appendages, you ask him to elaborate.

"She played lusus to a wviggler, sweeps ago. Before she vwas a slave, before I bought her." You gape at him in disbelief, because really, that's the stupidest fucking thing you've ever heard. It also has nothing to do with you in particular. 

He's yawning, reclining in the sopor, about to fall asleep, and you drag your claws down his chest hard enough to leave violet stripes. He bares his shark teeth at you, and you bare your own nubby fangs in return. 

"She loved him," is all he'll say. 

You growl, annoyed. "So she hates me because I happen to look like him, or whatever?" 

He laughs and draws you closer, and says no more. It's probably as much of an answer as you'll ever get.

**

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and lately your life has gone to shit in a frankly alarming number of ways. 

When you were a wiggler you thought you knew everything there was to know about romance. You thought you knew how hate and pity and love fit together. You sequestered these emotions into their own little boxes, because emotions had to be _pure_ to mean anything.

You never imagined it could be so difficult to differentiate sometimes. 

Your life is a clusterfuck of quadrants and vacillations, of pity and fear and empathy for everyone around you. It's hard to deal with sometimes, but you're learning. You're Karkat Vantas, and you're the fucking romance expert, okay. You always knew you were hatched to be something really great, after all. 

(You just wish your blood wasn't so fucking delicious, because it's really getting to be a pain in the neck.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from yet another Spock's Beard song, [As Long As We Ride](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=33mdufmlwYw).


	3. Feel Euphoria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your name is Cronus Ampora, and you meet your descendant for the first time at a party, of all places.
> 
> He's a tall, lanky thing, wearing thick-rimmed glasses and a scarf over an obnoxiously pinstriped suit. You knew he was yours even before you saw the sign stitched on his breast: the horns, the hair (though that violet streak is new), the build. It's all terribly familiar to you, and you spend a brief moment just staring and wondering if you'd ever been that fucking young.

Your name is Cronus Ampora, and you meet your descendant for the first time at a party, of all places.

He's a tall, lanky thing, wearing thick-rimmed glasses and a scarf over an obnoxiously pinstriped suit. You knew he was yours even before you saw the sign stitched on his breast: the horns, the hair (though that violet streak is new), the build. It's all terribly familiar to you, and you spend a brief moment just staring and wondering if you'd ever been that fucking young.

You observe from a distance for a while, making small talk with whatever troll is unfortunate enough to cross your path. Most of them are seadwellers like you, but quite a bit younger- you're not very old by your caste's standards, but there aren't too many trolls your age on planet, after all. 

You know something's wrong immediately because Karkat is usually the one doing the cornering at these things, cutting some highblood from the throng like a woofbeast herding woolbeast, and spending the rest of the night furiously arguing about the bullshit of a hemocaste system that allows for slavery and culling of perfectly innocent trolls. 

You've gotten complaints, which is the best part. You dress him conservatively, in dark suits and vests with your sign stitched in violet on the cuffs, so most trolls tend to leave him alone. He's just your valet, maybe a little more spoiled than most. They don't know that there is a mutant among them, don't know that this troll's ancestor planted the seeds of rebellion that resulted in the Summoner's uprising. They'll never know that your other slave, the Dolorosa, was the cause of all their strife to begin with.

They'll never know, and it's hilarious. It's a joke only you are privy to, a subtle rebellion of your own that might get you culled, if only they knew. 

At any rate, seeing him actually paying attention to a kid who looks like you did when you were nine sweeps kickstarts your jealous streak, and you glide up behind them to intervene. Your descendent is blathering on about something in an accent that sounds like a poor imitation of your own. He fails to notice Karkat's eyes shift from him to you as you stalk up and clamp a hand down on the wiggler's shoulder.

The littler Ampora freezes as you lean over him, cocking an eyebrow at Karkat. Surprising another troll like this is rude, if not an outright insult, but you're bigger and older and you tower over both of them. Your descendent makes a frightened squeak, a grub sound, and you can't help but laugh at his expense. 

"Vwell, nowv," you drawl, more than a little inebriated. "Is this an Ampora vwe got on our hands?"

Your descendent growls and attempts to shake you off, but in the process he gets a good look at you and his eyes go wide as saucers. He has to know who you are. Your sign's basically everywhere: your lapels, you breast, your signet ring. The bigger question is how failed to see your sign on Karkat's clothing. Maybe he was too wrapped up in his own monologue to notice.

"Oh my god," Karkat groans, covering his face with his palms. "I'm in hell."

When you return to your ship that evening, Karkat is visibly drunk, stumbling around and slurring his words. It's actually a big improvement, in your opinion. He clings to your arm because you're the only thing keeping him vertical, and though he's still talking nonstop, his words are incoherent enough for you to tolerate. It's like a gentle white noise, waves against the hull, peppered with the occasional "fuck!"

Porrim eyes him with distaste as you stroll down the pier together, your other arm around hers. She's as radiant as usual in a long black and jade gown, your sign hanging from bracelets on her wrists. She cuts a perfect figure, even for a lowblood. You wish- well. You wish for a lot of things, but none of them are important right now.

"Why did you let him drink?" she asks, accusing, giving you that look you've come to know so well. It means you've fucked up pretty spectacularly, and she knows she can't actually rebuke you for it.

"He vwas distressed by my descendent," you reply, as innocently as possible. "Vwith tvwo of us in the room, I can see vwhy. That's a lot of Ampora to deal vwith."

She sniffs. " _I_ find it rather distressing that you have a descendent in the first place."

Even as tipsy as you are, that still hits you pretty hard. You never had a matesprit, so Eridan must belong to you and Mindfang, and thinking about your old kismesis does nothing for your health. Porrim must notice, because she says no more on the subject.

You walk the rest of the way to the ship in silence.

**

Your name is Cronus Ampora, and you know you've made a lot of bad decisions in your life. Buying the Dolorosa was not one of them.

She has been your constant companion for over two hundred sweeps. You've never had a slave so long, because lowbloods tend to be fragile things, and fragile things don't last long in your presence. You've mellowed a bit in your advanced age, and you wonder sometimes how much she has to do with it. 

You tell her constantly how beautiful she is, how much you couldn't live without her, and the thing is, you're not being insincere. In another life, you would have wanted her for your matesprit. You've never felt that way about any troll. It's a pity the circumstances that brought her to you, but if the alternative was never knowing her, well. You'll take this instead. 

There's some bad weather rolling in, so you decide to drop anchor in a secluded natural harbor you've used once or twice before. It's pretty far out of the way of the coastal cities, and any further inland you'd run into drones, because you're close to the wiggler grounds that take up most of Alternia's largest continent. But here in the harbor, you're safe enough from most things.

The water is shallow, but still deep enough for your ship: small, more of a yacht than the old three-mast frigate you used to command, and mostly run by automated systems, but there's still plenty for the three of you to do. It's got a triangular mainsail and a headsail, and you've been trying to hammer the technical terms into Karkat's head for the past half-sweep. It's a lost cause, and you find yourself twitching whenever he mentions the "big fuckoff pole" in the middle of the deck. You're pretty sure he's doing it on purpose, and not even the lash convinces him to stop completely. 

Porrim, on the other hand, goes about her tasks diligently and expertly. She's as much of a sailor as you, now, after being with you for so long. Together, the three of you can sail the ship, but it would be tempting fate to try weathering a real storm.

It's still early when you drop anchor, so you decide to spent the rest of the night on the beach. A bonfire sounds perfect, and the sky is clear, the storm skirting past the mainland. You send Karkat to fetch wood to burn while you dive into the clear waters to catch some dinner. When you come back to them, Porrim has a fire blazing in a pit lined with rocks, the burning driftwood sending multicoloured sparks drifting into the night sky. She takes the fish you've caught and sets to gutting and scaling them while Karkat watches in mild disgust.

You sit and watch her and Karkat bicker, leaving the conversation to them for once. Karkat's constantly complaining about something, and Porrim tolerates it well enough. Her skin is glowing in the light of the moons, a rainbow drinker thing, and it contrasts nicely with the tattoos that curve along her collarbones and run down her arms. You know the black lines continue down her chest, along her ribs; you've seen them, touched them, but that's about it. As with Karkat, she only tolerates you, and when enough is enough she's not afraid to let you know.

You've never forced her. You tried, once or twice, but there's something about the Dolorosa that makes it impossible to displease her. She only has to look at you in a certain way and that's it, you're done. You want her, badly- but what's more, you want her to want you _back_. It's an unusual thing for you, to want the approval of someone so far beneath you. With the Dolorosa, with Porrim, you aren't ashamed.

You round out the night by persuading Karkat to swim with you in the shallow waters of the bay. He's skeptical at first, because you've done your fair share of traumatizing him with the open ocean, but in the end you drag him in, only far out enough that he's submerged to his shoulders. You initiate a splash fight of epic proportions, and when he loses he keeps the bitching to a minimum. 

Porrim only watches, hands folded in her lap, and says nothing. Her gaze is distant, and you think maybe she's imagining another place, another time; better days, before she met you.

**

You fuck up with Karkat, but you're not entirely sure how, or why. He's in your lap, facing you, and you're running a hand down his thigh as he rocks back and forth, clicking and chirring, his face buried in your neck. You're whispering encouragement of your own, slightly more in control but only just. Then, unthinking, you tilt his face up toward yours, claiming his lips, and whisper, "You're perfect, love."

You know it was a mistake immediately when he freezes, fingers clenching your thighs and shoulders locking up. He leans away from you, far enough to look you full in the face, and you can't read him. That's what worries you the most- Karkat is good at some things, but hiding his emotions certainly isn't one of them.

"Vwhat?" you ask, shifting your arms under his and pulling him forward again. He's shaking, and you don't know why. "Vwhat did I say?" He bares his teeth at you, but looks away, and it's like nothing happened at all. You're torn between demanding an answer, or letting it go completely. 

You're not a fool; you know he wouldn't let you fuck him if he had any other choice. He plays along, lets you do what you want to him because you don't hurt him (much), and if he dislikes it, he doesn't let you know. But somehow, this bothers you.

Later, in your recuperacoon, you go over it again, and the ridiculousness of the situation begins to annoy you more than anything. You didn't say or do anything differently. In fact, you've been pretty lax with him, punishing him less often when he mouths off at you, letting him have more free reign. You suppose you're growing more fond of him, tolerating or even welcoming his attitude. He fights you, and you enjoy it, because Porrim would never cross you like that. She's far more subtle in her approach, and sometimes you need a good challenge.

He doesn't bring it up, but you start to notice the way his eyes narrow when you speak to him, the downward curve of his mouth when you give him orders. He stops arguing with you, and that's the most annoying part of all. 

You decide to ask Porrim about it one night as she serves you your early evening meal in the quiet of your cabin, pushing aside your navigation charts to make room for the tray.

She purses her lips and fixes you with her most piercing of looks, the one that makes you feel like a wiggler being chewed out by its lusus. "I suspect he'll get over it," she says, and leaves it at that.

Of course, she's right. Being withdrawn is against Karkat's nature, and he's back to his usual level of crabbiness in short order. You decide to let it go, and you don't notice the way he still flinches, occasionally, when you call him 'darling', or 'love'. 

After all, you're so used to throwing around those words that they've lost all meaning to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song title is from [Feel Euphoria](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnmd4w9M1W8) by Spock's Beard.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the song [Ghosts of Autumn](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bn5RzO_ThRM), by Spock's Beard.
> 
> Thanks to manyblinkinglights for beta reading and helping me figure out what the hell I was trying to do with this fic.
> 
> Check out mbl's hilarious [ashen romance cover! ](http://manyblinkinglights.tumblr.com/post/51535943994/but-what-do-the-covers-of-tawdry-ashen-romance)


End file.
